Division of Labour
by Flaignhan
Summary: Little things keep him on the straight and narrow.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Two parter. Second part likely to come around the weekend. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Division of Labour**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't therapeutic.

And she'd be able to tell.

She pulls another strip of sellotape off of the dispenser, just a little too long, as always. She could probably wrap another dozen presents per roll if she got a bit better at judging it, but he's certain she doesn't care. She's quite happy with her silly Christmas jumper and her glass of red wine. He'd brought it with him, a good pinot noir from the _Majestic_ that sits rather helpfully on the path between their flats. He's had half a glass himself, can feel the snifter of alcohol working its way through him, dulling the stresses of life.

There's an advert on the TV about a saving club for _next Christmas_ , and he can't prevent the roll of his eyes. He'd like to get this one out of the way first, before the world starts trying to scam him for the next one.

"Sausage roll?" Molly asks, and he nods. She tilts back her chair, reaching across to the windowsill where they have piled the placemats that usually sit on her small dining table. A plate of crispy sausage rolls sits atop the stack, and Molly plucks one from the mountain of pastry, and holds it out to him. He takes a large bite, and chews it while he smooths the layers of paper down to make a neat diagonal fold. The other half of the sausage roll hovers in the air, perched between Molly's index finger and thumb.

She tries, rather cack-handedly, to sever a piece of sellotape with just the one spare hand, and an elbow to steady the dispenser. Sherlock holds the fold in place with one hand, and with the other, guides Molly's hand, and the rest of the sausage roll towards his mouth.

Molly pauses in her sellotape wrangling to pop the sausage roll into his mouth, then brushes her fingertips against her thigh, flakes of pastry fluttering towards the floor.

At long last, she hands him a length of tape, and lays it on top of the brightly patterned paper, then runs his thumbnail over it to ensure it sticks properly.

He takes a break, deciding it's very necessary to wash down his sausage roll with a glug of wine, and Molly starts unreeling a spool of shiny silver ribbon.

When she's snipped a piece (far too long) she passes it over to him in a springy tangle for him to unfurl, tie, and inevitably curl (despite his initial protests at being responsible for scraping a scissor blade along the length of the ribbon).

She starts writing out the tag, using the same gold gel pen she's carted out the past couple of years for this very same task. Her writing is a little bigger than usual, and a little more animated. It would look out of place on an autopsy report, but on a Father Christmas shaped gift tag, it looks just about right. She's smiling to herself as she does it, and even when she has to thread the glittery string through the hole in the corner of the tag, she looks wholly content.

She catches his eye, and immediately he returns to curling the ribbon, using quick motions with the scissors to try and get nice tight curls - all the better to hide the excess.

"You could just put my name on the tag as well," Sherlock tells her. He fiddles with the ribbon, trying to arrange the curls in a semi pleasing way while Molly tears off another piece of tape and sticks the label to the present.

"It's not _for you_ ," Molly says, taking the present from him and twisting in her seat so she can add it to the pile that will be redistributed around the tree later in the evening.

"But it could be _from me_ ," Sherlock argues.

The next present, a musical night light for Rosie, is dumped on the table in front of him, and the roll of wrapping paper switched for a different design; childish cartoons of snowmen having snowball fights. He wonders, briefly, if this is the equivalent of humans hurling lumps of flesh at one another, but then Molly presses the scissors into his hand and he returns to his work.

"You had no part in choosing these gifts," Molly tells him. "You can't just waltz in at the end, do a bit of wrapping, and claim credit."

Sherlock huffs, and snatches the next strip of tape from her fingertip. "Do you honestly think John has any idea what he and Mary have bought people for Christmas?"

"That's different," Molly says. She takes off another two pieces of tape, one stuck to her index finger, the other to her thumb, then uses the opportunity to pick up her glass with her spare hand, and have another sip of her wine.

"How is it different?" His next fold is a bit rushed, and a bit uneven. Not that a baby would notice, but Molly's eyebrows twitch in disapproval all the same.

She doesn't miss a trick.

"Well John and Mary are married for a start," she says with a breath of laughter.

"I'd marry you," Sherlock says, bristling with confidence.

Molly arches an eyebrow, and he can feel her searching through his thoughts. She senses the second half of that sentence, is waiting for it, and so he gives it up without a fight.

"If it meant I didn't have to do any more Christmas shopping."

"Right," she says, in that dry way that she does when she's teasing him, when she holds eye contact a little too long, just to see him squirm under her gaze.

"I think it'd be worth it," he continues, feigning obliviousness to her scrutiny.

"Well you know it's a compromise," she says slowly, evidently unsure as to whether she genuinely needs to explain this to him or not. "That's what marriages or long term relationships are. They're just a pile of compromises that allow you to survive with someone else."

"And here I was thinking they were all about love..." Sherlock sighs.

"They _are_ ," Molly stresses. "But you need to be able to live with someone. If Mary does the Christmas shopping, John might take the bins out, or do the hoovering, or make the first cup of tea in the morning. He'll do something that Mary doesn't like doing."

"Division of labour," Sherlock says with a nod. "How practical."

"Well it needs to be practical," she says. "If you're going to spend your lives together."

"So," Sherlock says, pressing another fold into place, before running his palm over it to flatten out any bumps. "You could do the Christmas shopping, and I could buy you wine."

Molly, stretching across the table to reach a spool of pearlescent white ribbon, sags against the tabletop in a pool of laughter.

"You'd need to do something more substantial. And less damaging to my liver."

He thinks, and he thinks, and then he takes the length of ribbon from her and thinks some more as he ties it around the present, his hands working independently of his brain.

What could he possibly offer her? She's completely independent, doesn't need him for anything, other than wrapping presents when she can't be bothered to do it herself, but that's not a fair trade, he knows that.

He looks around the flat as he starts curling the ribbon, his brow furrowed. Inspiration isn't forthcoming, and she's so laid back that he rarely hears her complain about anything at all, chore or otherwise.

His eyes come to rest on her long braid, trailing over one shoulder, and he at last finds himself a bargaining chip.

"I'll clear out the plug hole in the shower when it gets blocked."

Molly frowns. "You can get stuff for that now. Dissolves it all."

He falls silent and wonders briefly what the fiancé did ( _ex-fiancé_ he reminds himself) in this world of compromises. It must have been fairly meaningful if she'd agreed to marry him.

"It's all a bit by the by," she says, as she unpicks a rogue tangle of sellotape from around the ends of her fingers (too long, always too long). "You'd need to get through the wedding first."

"Easy."

"And then the wedding night..."

There it is again, that dry, teasing tone. The one that makes her sound a bit older, the one that challenges him, when she reckons she can give him a run for his money.

"I'm sure I could struggle through," he says. He runs out of patience and tears his own strip of tape from the dispenser, while Molly tries to stick her ball of tape to the table to get it off her fingers.

"Yeah?" Molly asks. There's a wry smile playing at her lips. She doesn't believe him.

"Of course," he replies primly. "For the greater good."

She sniggers and takes another sip of wine.

"Seems like quite the sacrifice for something that only happens once a year."

He grumbles, and doesn't mention the faint red stain forming around her lips.

He quite likes it.

"Besides, if you're so good at reading people, surely you can get them the perfect Christmas present?"

He wants to scowl, because she's right, it should be easy. He should be able to read the wish lists of his friends by looking at their left sleeve, or some other such nonsense, but it doesn't quite work like that.

 _He_ doesn't quite work like that.

"Try telling that to John and last year's nose hair trimmer."

Molly sniggers again, and he shoves the plate of chocolate fingers towards her. She needs to eat more, or she'll be hammered by half past four.

She takes one, and snaps it in half with her teeth.

It's unnerving, sometimes, how she can see through every action, and read him like a book. Sometimes it's nice. Sometimes he doesn't have the words he needs and it doesn't matter.

"I don't think anyone wants a reminder of the fact that they're hurtling towards middle age. Least of all on Christmas day."

Mary had forcefully suppressed a smile, pressing her lips together into a thin line as she had looked around the room, then took a long sip of her herbal tea as a distraction. Had she not still been persona non grata in John's books at that point, Sherlock is certain she would have laughed aloud and reinforced the need for the gift.

"He needed it," Sherlock tells her. "And he was never going to buy one himself."

"Yes but you don't buy someone something they _need_ at Christmas, you buy them something they _want_."

Sherlock frowns. He is certain he has heard similar sentiments echoed in the film that's been on the TV this afternoon, trundling along in the background, interspersed with poorly timed, blaring adverts full of fake snow and jingling bells.

"Well then I don't know," he says, giving one final sweeping curl to the ribbon and sliding the box across the table to Molly, who adds it to the pile.

"You should have a think about it."

"I thought about it last time," he huffs. "How long did it take you to come up with the genius idea of incense sticks and bath salts for Mrs Hudson?"

There is a very distinct eye roll in his peripheral vision.

"She's easy to buy for," Molly says with a dismissive wave of her hand. " _But_ it was important to go to the shop. The rose was a bit sickly. Jasmine was a much better choice."

He's past caring at this point.

"I'll buy you dinner if you help me. A good restaurant, not just something quick. I'll book a table and everything."

"God," Molly says quietly. "You must be desperate if dinner is on the cards."

"Absolutely." There's no point beating about the bush. Christmas is less than a week away and he's made zero progress. Mary has roped him in to collect gifts for John and Rosie, Molly has had him wrapping presents (she probably knows he enjoys it) and Mrs Hudson has had him calculating appropriate sizes for Christmas jumpers. He has been the opposite of a Scrooge, but he's still stuck when it comes to buying his own gifts.

"Fine, we'll go out on Thursday evening. Have a think between now and then."

"All right."

He won't.

"Liar."

There she goes again, with her x-ray vision.

"And I'm not helping you buy a gift for me. You're on your own there."

Dangerous ground, but he'd expected it. He'll rope Mary in for this. She'll keep him on course.

He continues wrapping content with that things will get sorted one way or another, but when she dumps a ridiculous, colourful tin, in the shape of Bertie Bassett on the table, he nearly walks out the flat.

"John likes Liquorice Allsorts," she says with a shrug.

"Couldn't you have purchased them in a square box?" He eyes the tin distrustfully. It stands at around fourteen inches high, with a good five inch diameter. The hat doubles for a lid, with a large and irritating bobble on top that needs to be navigated with wrapping paper and sellotape too.

"I thought it was fun," Molly says, her small smile giving away her amusement. "Should be easy for a genius like you though, right?"

She's thrown down the gauntlet, the one she always does when he's complaining about something, but this bloody tin really is beyond the pale. He knows she's saved it for the later end of the day, once he's done all the easy ones. She's been sneaky about it.

He's slightly proud of her.

But he's also annoyed.

He manages to wrangle the stupid thing into some paper, all the while ignoring Molly's sedate smile as she holds out strips of tape on her fingers. She gives him twice as much ribbon as usual, perhaps to encourage him to disguise some of the less beautiful folds.

He begins tying a noose out of the ribbon, and lowers it onto Bertie's neck. When Molly lets out a snort of laughter, he knows that her attention has been drawn away from the TV and back to the task at hand.

Now he's been spotted, he relents, and reties the ribbon in a slightly more festive manner, before she hands him the scissors for his curling. He's got a dent in his right thumb from pressing it so hard against the blade all afternoon. He tries with his left hand for the next strand, but that only shreds the edges of the ribbon, leaving it poker straight and sad looking.

"D'you want me to do it?" Molly asks, her eyes lingering on thumb before she looks up to him.

He shakes his head and gets on with the job. "It's fine," he says. "Only a few left."

She gives him one of the sticky bows for the next gift, one of a small handful included in the ribbon pack. It's a bit big for the present, but when he points this out, she tells him she thinks it will look nice.

He doesn't bother calling her a liar.

If anything, he likes the little ways she looks after him. Never overtly, never overbearing, and seldom with the words 'your best interests'. That particular phrase has only ever been carted out when he's been high (or low) and entirely unruly.

It's not a phrase he likes.

But he does like the way she leaves his mug on the mug tree by the kettle. It's never very far from reach, and never ever exiled to the cupboard.

Little things like that, they keep him on the straight and narrow. Remind him that it's worth staying sober. There's too much to lose if he drops the ball again, and she _reads it_ , she can _always_ read it. Maybe it's the way his veins pop under the skin from the constant balling of his fists, his eyes might dart around nervously, or there's something in his stream of text messages (perhaps his radio silence is just as telling).

She refills his wine glass, just a little. He doesn't like too much, and he can do moderation with wine. It's not fun enough to be any real issue for him.

"Last one," she says, and she places a hexagonal box of Turkish delight (Mycroft, though heaven knows why she's bothered) on the table. He's tempted to scrunch the paper messily, but he can save the passive aggressive wrapping for his own gift - a book of low-GI recipes. He's had his think about it, he'll purchase it on Thursday.

Just as he's thumbing the last bit of sellotape into place, there's a swift knock at the door. Molly frowns at him, then passes him the spool of ribbon as she gets up and heads towards the door. She pads down the hallway, and there's a pause as she looks through the peephole, then the clunk of the latch as she pulls open the door.

"Hiya, you all right?"

It's Lestrade, and he doesn't wait for Molly's answer before he continues.

"Sherlock here by any chance?"

"Yeah," Molly says, "Come in, come in."

Molly shuffles back into the lounge, arms folded across her stomach from the blast of cold air that Lestrade has brought in with him from the outside world.

Sherlock turns back to the present and ties the ribbon around it, pulling it into a tight knot. He starts curling it with the scissors, and Lestrades heavy footfalls draw nearer.

"Did you find the second body?"

"Yes," Lestrade says, his tone grim. "Now will you _please -_ "

Sherlock dumps his scissors on the table and stands abruptly.

"Good. Just as I thought then."

Lestrade is biting his tongue, Sherlock knows it, but he's in a cheerful mood and a double murder has only buoyed him further.

"That makes it a seven," he says, and he drops the Turkish delight unceremoniously onto the pile of presents. He moves over to the sofa, where his shoes were earlier discarded, and jams his feet into them. He lifts one foot and places it on top of Molly's patchwork pouffe as he ties his laces.

"And we all know a seven is worth putting your shoes on for," he adds. He's feeling smug, but then he catches Molly's eye, and he removes his foot from the pouffe, and hops about on one leg, securing his laces, before he switches to the other foot.

Lestrade is tired. There's a faint coffee stain on the lapel of his jacket, and his stubble is looking a shade longer than usual. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, the lines of his face drawn with more emphasis this evening. He is, however, still something of a detective. His eyes linger on the pile of neatly wrapped presents next to the dining table, and then his eyes narrow as he surveys Sherlock, who can practically see the clogs turning laboriously, and still managing to arrive at the wrong conclusion.

"D'you want to come along?" Sherlock asks, turning his attention back to Molly.

She opens her mouth to reply, but then he remembers and cuts her short.

"Work in the morning."

She nods.

"Don't worry."

She should get some sleep, and should probably finish off the last of the wine. He's not sure how accurate her work will be when she's spent a good portion of the afternoon imbibing, so perhaps it's for the best if she stays here and gets a good night's sleep.

"I'll see you later."

He touches her arm briefly on his way out, and Lestrade must notice, because he's absolutely silent in the lift. In fact he doesn't say a word until they're in the car, on the way to the second crime scene.

"You've been wrapping Christmas presents with Molly?" he asks.

"Yes..." Sherlock says slowly. He's staring straight ahead, at the headlights flashing past them, but he can sense Lestrade glancing towards him every few seconds, to try and gauge his expression.

"While there's been a body lying on a slab, case waiting to be solved?"

Sherlock's eyebrows draw together. "I told you there would be a second body, and that you needed to find it before I'd come on board. Must I really hold your hand every step of the way?"

Lestrade inhales, as though he's about to retaliate with some unfunny riposte, but he must think better of it, because he lets the breath out again, the retort dissolving into the air.

* * *

It's a quarter to six by the time he crawls into bed. The upstairs neighbour is in custody, and there's easily enough evidence to get him a life sentence with a lengthy minimum term.

Molly stirs, but he murmurs a few words to let her know that it's only him, and she settles immediately.

The scent of her is all over the pillow, and he breathes in deeply, picking out the coconut of her shampoo, and the peony of her body spritz.

His eyelids start to droop, and he wonders what she might want for Christmas.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Only two weeks left. I think we can make it. Enjoy part two!

* * *

 **Division of Labour**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Christmas music is blaring from every shop, but it's not synchronised. There's no consistency, just similarly terrible playlists being churned out for twelve hours a day. There are flashing lights and people crowding around window displays and the entrances to coffee shops and restaurants. Some of them decide to stop dead, right in front of him and Molly while they're trying to walk to their next stop, resulting in Sherlock yanking Molly to one side, to keep her from stumbling and himself from dropping the crystal whiskey decanter he's bought for John this year.

Better than a nose hair trimmer, apparently.

It's all a bit too much, the crushing rush and panic; there are still a good two days before Christmas, and the shops are open for another few hours tonight, so it's all entirely unnecessary. Sherlock leans over to Molly and murmurs in her ear.

"I need a break."

She gives him a sidelong glance, then takes him by the hand, weaving her way through the crowds, past the shops in a way that only a seasoned shopper could. The map he's committed to memory doesn't account for large Christmas displays or small business stands selling handbags or flavoured e-cigarettes.

They shoot down a side route, past a Chinese herbalist and a McDonald's and then out into the fresh air.

Sherlock exhales, his breath fogging in front of him, and he sets his bags down and leans against a bollard. He pats his pockets down.

Wallet.

Phone.

Keys.

Lighter.

Assortment of useful trinkets.

"Other jacket," Molly says softly. She looks up at him, her mouth hidden by her scarf. He's sure she's known this for some time, probably before they even left the flat.

He shouldn't be smoking at all, but this...this is hell on Earth.

She opens her bag, and he thinks she's about to redeem herself, that she will conjure up twenty Marlborough Reds that he can chain smoke two at a time for the next quarter of an hour.

But no.

She doesn't even have Marlborough Lights.

She has nicotine patches. Standard, NHS nicotine patches.

It's not even the good stuff.

"Don't," Sherlock says, and he glances back inside the shopping centre, certain he saw a newsagents somewhere along the way.

No, it was back next to Tiger, and he'd need to pass Topshop to get there.

He could try e-cigarettes, despite them being an insult to everything he holds dear. But Molly is already sliding his coat and jacket off of his shoulder so she can get to his sleeve.

He doesn't fight her, but nor does he look at her, and after she's stuck one patch on, he hears the peeling sounds of the wrapper of a second one.

He might just love her.

"I need three," he says, when she starts tugging his shirt sleeve back down.

"You can have another one when we get to the restaurant."

The packet is already going back in her bag, and he knows there's no use in arguing. She's a doctor, after all, and it's probably in breach of her ethics codes to cover an addict head to toe in nicotine patches. Someone might have something to say about it, somewhere.

"D'you want to go and get a coffee?"

He follows her gaze to the Pret across the road, where half the chairs are already on the tables. They must close at eight, which would give them about twenty minutes of respite before they get kicked out.

"What's left?" he asks.

Molly surveys the bags, and mumbles a checklist under her breath, ticking off John, Rosie, Lestrade, Mycroft - she had put a blanket ban on any diet books when he had shown her one in Waterstones and so he had had to settle on cufflinks, of all things.

"Mary and Mrs Hudson," she says.

"Are you sure I shouldn't get Mary the - "

She gives him a look and he falls silent. He's seen a flick knife in a pawn shop with a carved bone handle, but Molly had had several objections. They'd walked past the shop earlier and he'd dragged her in, just to show her how perfect it was. When she'd seen the faint bloodstain on the underside of the handle that the dealer had been unable to scrub, she'd vetoed it once and for all. They had left the shop with him trailing behind, telling her about how it was an antique, and whichever animal (rhino? Maybe elephant) had donated part of its skeleton would be long dead anyway.

She wasn't having any of it.

Instead, Molly suggests a spa day, booked online, so no need to go into any shops.

Sherlock's eyebrows draw together. He's not convinced.

"She doesn't seem like a _spa_ person."

"She squeezed a human out of her body recently. That's the sort of thing that'll turn you into a spa person."

"Fair point."

He searches on his phone for an appropriate venue with good reviews while they walk to the next stop. Molly leads him into another department store, though he has no idea which one. They've all started to look the same to him.

By the time he's received a confirmation email from the Eden Spa, they've arrived at a display of silk scarves, presumably one of them meant for Mrs Hudson. They're not quite the 'you've been talking for too long' alarm he was after, but he supposes one of them will do.

Molly is looking at a fuchsia coloured scarf with a white floral pattern on it, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"The colour. Drains her."

Molly raises an eyebrow, her mouth twitching at the corners.

"It came up," he says, clasping his hands behind his back and looking around the rest of the shop. "For a case. Botulinum poisoning. Housekeeper. D'you remember?"

"Yeah," Molly mumbles, and she turns away, and threads a teal scarf through her fingers.

The realisation that he has put his foot in it comes far too late.

Moriarty.

She'd been used.

She still feels foolish.

And disgusted.

He puts his bags down on the floor and moves behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders and squeezing gently. He's seen people do this in attempts at reassurance, and has recognised at least a minimal resulting effect.

He reaches past her for an indigo scarf patterned with navy line drawings of butterflies. "What about this one?" he asks, voice low. He takes it down from the rack and Molly inspects it.

"Yeah I think she'll like it."

"Shall we get it then?" Sherlock asks. "And we can get her some chocolates as well?" He gestures towards a mountainous red and gold display near the main walkway and Molly looks over, then nods.

"Yeah, let's go," she says, and she folds the scarf over her arm, holding the bags in her right hand at a slightly odd angle to keep it from dragging on the floor. Sherlock picks up his bags and they wander over to the chocolate display.

He stays on best behaviour for the last few minutes of the ordeal, and when they reach the restaurant, he orders a bottle of wine before they make it to their table.

* * *

"I really think I should get Mary that knife."

Molly rolls over to face him.

"It's probably stolen," she says. He can sense the movement on her face, though he can't really see it in the dark. He's certain she's frowning.

"Probably," he replies. "Most things are, in there."

She lets out a quiet huff and he knows he's not making any progress.

"There's a chance it's a murder weapon too," she adds. "You saw the blood on it."

"Could have originated from an infinite number of possibilities," he says. "But, if that's true then I'll pay an extra forty pounds for it."

It might be pitch black, but her aim is true, and she swats him on the arm, before she recoils, snatching her arm back under the duvet, lest she lose half a degree of warmth.

"Don't you think she'd like it though?" he presses. For some reason, he feels like he needs her approval before he can go ahead and buy it. He feels as though it would be a betrayal to just go and get it and wrap it up and give it to Mary on the sly on Christmas day.

He's spent a good portion of his life lying, deceiving, especially when it comes to the people he cares about. He's not sure why his conscience should rear its unwanted head now, especially over such a trivial matter.

"She's left all that behind," Molly murmurs. Her voice is softer than usual; tiredness is setting in, sweeping its blanket over her and lulling her into unconsciousness. "She's married, she's got a baby..."

"It not like I'm buying her night vision goggles and an M-16," Sherlock argues. "And besides, it's more of a decorative item than anything else."

She laughs into the pillow. "Flowers are decorative," she says. "Not so sure about stolen murder weapons."

"It's only _possibly_ a murder weapon."

"But definitely stolen?"

"Oh yeah, no question."

Another breath of laughter issues from her, and a smile twists itself into existence on his own lips. These moments, just before she falls asleep, when they exchange quiet words in the dark, they're his favourite. Her flat's on a high enough floor that he can rarely hear traffic, and never pedestrians. There are no streetlights glaring through the window, illuminating the outline of the curtains. It's quiet, and peaceful, and he can almost ( _almost_ ) lock the door on his mind and just _be_ , just for a little while.

"Get it if you think she'll really like it," Molly concedes at last, rolling onto her front and folding her arms between her pillows.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He lays there for three seconds, and then he sits up and swings his legs out of the bed. Molly grumbles, and tugs the duvet back up to cover her shoulders.

"Now?"

"Yeah," he tells her, leaning forward to feel around for his clothes, chucked lazily onto the wicker chair just half an hour before.

"Will it be open?"

"Always open," Sherlock replies. "People don't tend to want to shift stolen goods during business hours."

She sighs into her pillow, and he's not sure she's processing his words any longer. They just float in the air around her head then dissipate. Maybe a fragment of the message makes it through to some low lit corner of her brain, but she's too tired to make an effort now.

"I'll be back in an hour," he whispers, and he neatens the duvet, flattening the small peak that would have broken her cocoon of warmth.

"Don't wake me up," she mumbles, and he gets changed quickly then tiptoes from the room, carrying his shoes in one hand.

He doesn't put them on until he reaches the lift, where the noisy soles are well out of earshot.

* * *

"New forceps."

"Absolutely not," Mary says, giving him a disgusted look as she paces back and forth in front of the fireplace with a wailing Rosie in her arms.

"The thread on the screw's gone on hers, they're a bit wobbly."

"They're a _work tool_ ," Mary replies. "You can't get her _work tools_ for Christmas."

Sherlock slumps back into the sofa and lets out a sigh. Rosie's displeasure is as loud as ever, and he can't help but feel envious. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to start bawling his eyes out at the mere mention of Christmas shopping. The sound rings in his ears, and he closes his eyes, waiting for it to abate.

"Get her something nice. Something she'd really like." Mary has now taken to rocking Rosie, and the motion soothes her just enough for there to be a drop in decibels.

"How am I supposed to know what that is?" he complains, but Mary just lets out a spluttering laugh.

"You know her better than anyone!"

"No," Sherlock says. His eyes snap open and he sits up straight. "She knows _me_ better than anyone, that doesn't mean it goes both ways. She's..." He looks around the room as he searches for the right word, as though the answer might be graffitied on the wall. "Complicated," he finishes with a shrug, and he slouches back into the cushions again.

" _Rubbish_ ," Mary says, and she sits down, as Rosie's griping peters out. "You _do_ know her. You just want this to be easy and it's not."

"I don't know how to do _nice gifts_ ," he replies, looking up to the ceiling, his hands clasped on top of his stomach. "And she should have a nice gift, but I'm just no good at that."

"I know, I remember the nose hair trimmer."

Sherlock sniggers, and Mary lets out a hushed laugh, careful not to disturb Rosie, now that's she's settled down.

"What d'you think she'd like? More than anything in the world?"

"A holiday," he jokes, looking across to Mary, who laughs, but then her face slackens as she gives the idea some thought.

"Could work," she says, nodding her approval. "If you want to get her something really nice."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorts. "You can't buy someone a holiday for Christmas." He shakes his head, then mutters, "I'd have been better off asking John."

"Well ask him then," Mary says with a shrug. "But I would point out that you can book a holiday _online_."

The idea is suddenly all the more appealing.

"It doesn't have to be three weeks in the Caribbean, it could just be a city break, or a long weekend in the Cotswolds. Anything, just take her _somewhere._ "

Take her?

 _Take_ her?

That's a spanner in the works.

"What d'you mean _take her_? She wouldn't want _me_ to go."

"What are you talking about?" Mary scoffs. "Of course she would."

"Don't you think she needs a holiday from _me_?" Sherlock asks. He's fully aware he doesn't make life easy for Molly, fully aware that he can be miserable, and he can be grumpy, and he can irritable, and she, undeservedly, feels the repercussions of that more than others. Surely some time away from him would be a godsend?

Mary surveys him, her eyes narrowed, as though he is a cryptic crossword clue that she's trying to unravel. There is a flash of something that looks like pity in her eyes, but it doesn't linger.

It makes his skin prickle with discomfort.

"If she wanted a break from you, you'd spend more than two nights a week at Baker Street," Mary tells him, her voice soft, but firm. "She doesn't want, or _need_ a break from you. She cares about you. A lot."

"Yes but - "

Mary doesn't give him the chance to protest. "She likes having you around. I can't believe you don't realise that." She bites her lip, her eyebrows drawn together as she shakes her head minutely, disbelief clouding their conversation.

"But she _knows me_ ," Sherlock replies. "She knows everything about me." He looks down at his hands, and runs his index finger over the veins on the back of his left hand. "She knows about all of the terrible things I've done. She knows when I lie, and, by extension, just how often I lie... She knows about the drugs..."

"But you're clean at the moment, aren't you?"

'At the moment' stings more than it has any right to. He's a relapse machine after all.

"Of course I'm clean," he snaps. "But all the same, don't you think that if you were her, you'd find caring about me to be a bit..."

"What?" Mary asks. There's that look again, in her eyes, as though she's chipping away at his facade and catching a glimpse of what lies beneath.

"Well, exhausting." He shrugs his shoulders, glancing towards Mary before he decides to focus on the bookcase instead. He counts the books, leaping across the spines in groups of five. It's not a good enough distraction however, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a nicotine patch.

"You have a good heart," Mary tells him, leaning forward, her eyes fixed on him. "And it doesn't always communicate very effectively with your brain, or your mouth, but you _do_ have a good heart. And we can _all_ see that."

He sticks the patch to his arm, running his thumb over it to smooth it down. He holds his breath, trying to feel the difference, but there's nothing yet.

"She's always seen it, and she's always cared about you. And that's made all the difference. I mean, _look at you_."

Sherlock scrunches his nose and turns to face her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not even smoking," Mary tells him, and she tries (and fails) to keep a grin at bay.

"Well I _want_ to be," he sulks, and he brushes his thumb over his patch again, as though this will give him a much needed blast of nicotine.

"But you're not," Mary says. "If you want to smoke that much, then why don't you? It's not illegal."

She's goading him, he knows it. There's a reason for him sticking with the patches, even when Christmas shopping, even when at Baker Street and there's no chance of discovery, and he won't be getting the smell of tobacco onto her sofa or her bed. The reason is simple, but he's not sure it's his to tell. Not even Molly knows why he pulls himself back from the cliff edge, every time he wants take a long drag and feel that burn at the back of his throat.

"Did you know her dad died of emphysema?" he asks. He looks across again, but there's still something in her eyes that unsettles him.

He wonders if this is what having a therapist is like.

"I didn't," she says softly.

Sherlock nods. "Wheezed his way into an early grave. Smoked thirty a day for thirty-five years."

"So that's why you - "

"He was diagnosed just before she went to university," he continues. "He never saw her graduate."

Mary lets out a sigh, sinking back into the sofa cushions. Rosie shifts against her chest, her tiny hands curled into fists as she emits soft, purring snores.

"So you don't smoke, for her sake."

Sherlock shrugs. Molly has no idea that she has anything to do with his attempt to stay smoke-free.

"There are better ways to die."

* * *

"Well this is an improvement," John says, holding up the decanter to have a good look at it. "Very nice indeed. Thanks mate."

"There's a bottle under there too," Sherlock says, nodding towards the tree. "So you can give it a test drive, as it were."

John crouches down and reaches for the bottle bag, baubles wobbling as their glitter catches against his jumper. He pulls the bottle from the bag and stands up, reading the label before he gives a nod of approval and unscrews the cap. He pours it into the decanter, the amber liquid chugging as it makes its way out of the narrow bottle neck, and splashing against the crystal.

Mrs Hudson is delighted with her scarf and her chocolates; even more so when Sherlock doesn't resist her extraordinarily forceful hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Mary opens the spa voucher first, and her eyes widen with delight. She looks to Sherlock, and then to Molly (it must be blindingly obvious that she was on his advisory committee) a broad grin on her face.

"Thank you," she says, and she slots the voucher back into its envelope then tucks it into her handbag. "That's great, thanks."

"So you _are_ a spa person then?" Molly asks. She glances towards Sherlock, a mischievous smile dancing about on her lips.

"I'll take any form of relaxation," Mary replies. "And that sounds utterly perfect." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Sherlock supposes she's imagining the quiet tranquility of the spa, the rich, warm air, and the scent of expensive moisturisers, masks, and oils.

"You've got another present though," Sherlock tells her. "One that _I_ chose." He pauses, before adding, "One that Molly doesn't like."

Molly gives him a look, which he studiously ignores while Mary begins to unwrap the sleek black box. She looks up at Sherlock, suspicion written all over her features, then eases the lid open.

An eyebrow arches.

"Is it stolen?"

"Not by _me,_ " he says indignantly.

Mary takes the knife out of the box and weighs it in her hand, testing it in her grip.

"Oh that's great," John says, watching the knife as Mary passes it quickly between each hand. "What a brilliant thing to have in the house when there's a baby around."

"And where's your gun, exactly?" Sherlock asks.

"Locked away," John retorts. He spares a fleeting glance for Lestrade, who appears to have gone both temporarily deaf and blind.

"Well there's no reason you can't take the same sensible precautions with this," Sherlock says, flashing a brief smile towards John. Between the two of them, he'd wager that John and Mary have one of the biggest weapons arsenals in the whole of London, bar drug dealers and other such unsavoury characters.

"Is this ivory?" Mary asks, pulling a face as she looks towards Sherlock.

"No," he says, with one definite shake of his head. Even he would draw the line at that.

Probably.

Unless it was _really_ interesting.

The answer appears to ease Mary's conscience, and she flicks the blade out, which has been sharpened and had a good clean since Sherlock liberated it from the pawn shop.

"It's quite...handy, isn't it?" Mary says. "Nice and dinky," she adds. "And the bloodstain's a nice touch."

"So you...like it?" Sherlock asks. He's fishing, and he can feel Molly's eyes on him.

"Yeah," Mary replies, nodding slowly. "Yeah I think I do. Thanks Sherlock."

He grins, triumphant, then heads over to the tree to pull a present out from under it. It's wrapped impeccably (naturally) and the tag has Molly's name written on it. He passes it to her, and she blinks, surprised.

"For me?" she asks. "Another one?"

Sherlock nods, and presses the gift into her hands.

"Hang on, what was the first one?" Lestrade asks. "Did you open presents without the rest of us?"

"I just gave her one this morning," Sherlock says, then adds hastily, "A book. I gave her a book."

A hint of a smirk flashes across Mary's lips, but she doesn't say anything.

"What kind of book?" Lestrade presses.

"Travel guide," Sherlock says, in a clipped tone. He looks around for his glass of wine, but he can't see it and he needs _something_ , he needs a distraction, before all of this explodes and it becomes the only thing they talk about.

"Oh, are you going on holiday?" John asks Molly. Things have veered into pleasant conversation, which he can deal with, depending on how Molly chooses to respond. He can't ask her to lie, he'd never ask her to do that, but equally, dinner is nowhere near ready yet, so he can't leave, he can't escape from this at all.

"Yeah," Molly says, "I'm going to Florence in the spring." Her cheeks have attained a pinkish hue in the last couple of minutes, and Sherlock's rapidly pounding heart takes a tentative step down on the panic scale.

"Oh that'll be lovely," Mary says, beaming. "It's beautiful out there."

"Yeah, I'm really looking forward to it," Molly says. She sounds a little sheepish, but she is, once again, an angel sent from the heavens above. Discretion is her forte, along with a number of other things, and she's managed to achieve it without being a barefaced liar.

She's better at this than he is.

She diverts attention by opening her second present - just something he'd seen in a shop window on Christmas eve, and had had to battle through hoards of last minute shoppers to get.

Never mind a cigarette, he'd needed half a pound of heroin after that.

The true Christmas miracle is the fact that he'd abstained.

Molly takes the jumper out of the wrapping paper and holds it up. She smiles as she takes in the pastel colour block design.

"It's very _you_ ," Mary comments. Her eyes flick over to Sherlock, but he doesn't acknowledge that particular fact.

"Yeah," Molly replies, her smile spreading wider. "It's very _me_."

* * *

It's the first time she's stayed at Baker Street. Apart from during his high times (or low times, as she might refer to them). At any rate, it's the first time she's slept in his bed as Molly, rather than as Dr Hooper, on hand to clear his airway should he start choking on his own vomit.

"Are you really coming to Florence?" she asks, her voice quiet in the heavy silence.

"If you'd like me to." He looks up at the ceiling, arms folded across his chest.

"Only if you want to," Molly tells him. "You don't have to if you've got better things to - "

"I don't," he says quickly.

"What?"

"I don't have better things to do," he clarifies. "I'd like to come along, if you'll have me."

Molly shifts closer, and her arm comes out from under the duvet, her hand finding his and lacing their fingers together.

"Always," she breathes.

He rolls onto his side, and he can just about make out her brown eyes, glinting in the dark.

His heart feels too big for his chest, and he knows, he knows now that he could never be with anyone else, nor could he ever be content on his own.

His hand moves to her face, his thumb stroking gently against her jaw while he attempts to build up the courage for what comes next.

He inhales, and he can smell her new perfume (from John and Mary); her shampoo, which he has, at times, used himself; her body wash, cherry; her moisturiser, amber, apparently; and that smell that is distinctly her, the scent that would separate her from the other people who just happen to use the exact same collection of products that she does.

He moves closer to her, his face barely an inch from hers. He can feel her breath on his skin, a soft fluttering of anticipation.

He takes a leap of faith.

As always, she is there to catch him.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
